


Every Single Action Ends With Immediate Regret

by inkedintoincognito



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Identity Reveal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8653216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedintoincognito/pseuds/inkedintoincognito
Summary: Peter finally decides to reveal his identity to the Avengers, but it, of course, goes amiss, leaving him in a room full of people he's helped and befriended asking him to leave the group.





	1. Chapter 1

He had swung all the way over at four in the morning, after getting no sleep the night prior, and working all hours the day prior, moving on the adrenaline of a late-night/early-morning, come-during-a-crime-fight thought, and now here he was, standing in the _middle_ of a _circle_ of friends (seriously, what the hell?) mask in hand and face open for the first time and, fuck, he had been _so excited_ until Tony opened his big mouth and ruined everything. Until this long-winded debate began and speeches were made and Peter was getting really upset, the long hours and bleakening future and dashed hopes catching up with him.

 

They are _actually_ talking about making him quit because of his age.

 

And despite being here for nearly an hour already, he’s still not quite sure exactly which kind of awful he feels. On one hand, he’s pissed. He’s been fighting alongside of them for years and they’re trying to cut him out. He has his own super-villains! The Goblin and the Sandman and Mysterio and all the other fifty thousand nemeses he faces, like, once a week.

On the other hand, he’s scared. Revealing his face, his name, after so long of keeping it hidden, and getting met with this reaction was… unsettling. Upsetting. Attempts to abandon him after getting his personal information? Not good.

 

And this inner see-sawing is making it so much harder to debate.

 

“So, yeah, I don’t know, kid-“ nineteen, last time he checked, was not kid-age, but he’d pointed that out already- “-it just doesn’t seem right, you fighting alongside us. I’d add in something about you being a baby, but you’re getting pretty red, so I’ll turn this over to someone else.”

Yes, he was red. Was it because he was angrier than he’d ever been? Yes. Was it because he was more embarrassed than he’d ever been? Through some magnificent acrobating of emotion, also yes.

Tony jerks his head at Bruce, who is standing off to the side, trying to hide the fact that he is wringing his hands.

“Peter,” he says, and Peter decides that he is done acting like this is a polite debate where he listens quietly and makes a few weak points at the end of everyone’s speech, especially when the next point is going to be from someone he had beat while in his supposedly unstoppable superhero mode.

And, besides, whatever Bruce was going to say was going to be wrong, just like Tony’s spiel was, and just like Cap’s speech was (though at least his had, somehow, been kind of inspiring).

“No. Stop. This is bullshit, you guys.” He’s hissing, now, and swearing. He never hisses and he rarely swears, but goddamn this is frustrating and unnerving and unexpectedly negative. “I’ve been fighting in _New York_ going on five years. I actually have super powers, unlike three of you-“

“Cold,” Clint mutters.

“-and I also actually have been in more fights than, like, eight per cent of you.”

“Bullsh-“

“I, unlike some billionaires that I know, get into a fight or two or six almost every night. When was the last time you fought, Tony?” Peter can actually hear Tony’s teeth snap against each other. “Oh, right. Last month, right? When that HYDRA agent came into your building? And, please, remind me what happened?”

Silence. Peter, despite the heat in his cheeks, is about to goad on when Thor, speaking for the first time, hoisting his hammer above his head, happily yells, “Myself and the young spider took the agent down!”

Peter smiles at the god, sharping the grin as he turns back to Tony, ignoring the jackhammering in his chest and trying to remain cool. Despite the increasing pitch of his voice and his number of words per minute.

“Yeah. That’s what I remember. Because you were unconscious, right? Because you didn’t have your suit, right? That taser shock must have really hurt, man, both physically and pridef-“

“Okay, you fucking hyena, take a breath for a minute and let-“

“No. No, I won’t take a breath. I also don’t need to, because I have super-lungs. I could beat any of you in a breath holding contest, hands-down. So I’ll keep talking. Because this is absurd. Nat started training when she was younger than me. I’ve never really listened to Clint’s backstory because he’s not good at telling stories, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same deal. Maybe.” Clint mumbles something and slides off the chair onto the floor.

Bruce looks like he’s going to speak, but Tony bowls him over. “You’re _still_ a teenager, though.” Peter holds in a scream, then smiles grimly.

“Look. I know the only thing you have against me right now is the age thing, because you’re both frightened by someone on the team being more genius than you _and_ better looking.“

Tony’s jaw clenches and Bruce’s cough, Peter knows, is covering a laugh.

“In Asgard,” Thor says, “warriors are trained from a very young age, encouraged to fight.“

Peter is really liking Thor right now.

“This is Earth, Thor, and since you’re still not familiar with our customs, I’m gonna ask you to shut up for the remainder of this argument. Debate. For the remainder of this debate.”

Peter is really, really not liking Tony right now.

“No, I want Thor to weigh in,” he says.

“Thor is to remain silent for the remainder of the meeting.”

“He’s a member of the team-“

“And you’re not.” Peter struggles not to let hurt flash across his face.

Thor takes a step towards him and claps him on the back, more gentle than he had ever been but still guaranteeing a bruise tomorrow.

“I have no doubt that you will win, Peter Parker, so I will respect the opinion of my lack of knowledge about Earth culture.” Thor goes and sits down on one of the chairs, which groans under his weight.

“Thank you, Thor,” Tony sighs, shooting Peter a tight-lipped smile, that quickly turns into a deep frown as Thor continues.

“After all, one who has helped save a planet and made several friends there does not need to weigh in on the well-being of one of his teammates that could be linked to the well-being of the planet.”

Tony pinches his nose between his fingers. “Thank you, Thor.” Thor smiles and sends Peter a thumbs up, which Peter returns. People don’t give Thor enough credit. For instance, he had already fixed the thumbs-up thing from the middle finger lie that Tony had told.

Natasha sighs and shares a glance with Clint. “Look, Peter,” and he lets out a moan and whirls on his heels to face her, standing against the wall. “We’d love for you to continue to help us. You’re a really valuable hero to this team, but….” She shrugs. “It’ll be difficult to send you into fights knowing you’re the same age as the people we try to save first.”

He hates that he can see her point, that she is being so open, for once, at _this_ time.

And he hates that, in the back of his head, there is an ever-louder voice telling him that they are relived because they have found a way to get rid of him and are trying their hardest to take it. That, once again, Peter Parker is being shunned and pushed away and forgotten.

He squashes those thoughts down and spreads his hands, giving her a sad-but-reassuring smile. His specialty. “I’d still fight on my own. I mean, even with you guys, I still fight on my own. So it’s more dangerous to be without you guys, you know.”

From behind him: “Spiderman-”

Still facing Nat, Peter says, “I know you’re not using the hyphen, Cap, and I gotta say it’s still bothering me.”

He isn’t sure who groans, but it is loud and obnoxious and definitely Clint.

“Spider-man,” Steve amends. He sounds weary. Good.

“Great. Heard it that time. Thank you.” He turns to face him now, just in time to see Steve roll his eyes.

“It’s not that we think you’re weaker or more inexperienced.”

“Good. Because I’m stronger than many of you in both aspects.”

Steve’s lips tighten. “It’s just that we don’t want to be responsible for getting you killed.”

“So you’re okay if Bruce dies on your watch?”

“No, of course-“

“What about Natasha?”

“You’re misunderst-“

“Thor?” He’s loosing his cool, now.

“Immortals such as myself cannot die, Peter-”

“We don’t want Thor to die either-“

“So, who is it then?” He can hear his voice pitch higher. Consciously forcing it back down, he goes on. “Who don’t you mind dying on your watch? Because if you don’t want to be responsible for me and my death, and you’re still teamed up with everyone else-“

Tony interrupts. “They’re employees, they can choose-“

Is the sun finally expanding? Is that why the world abruptly turns so red? Suddenly, it is easy to be pissed rather than hurt.

“They’re _what_?”

Peter can see Tony mentally backpedaling and he takes a step forward, wishing he were closer so he could jab a finger into Tony’s chest. Right on that stupid glowing heart thing.

“You _pay_ them to be on the team?”

“Well-“

“I’ve been on the team for _six months_ -“

“You’ve been _assisting_ our team-“

“-struggling to pay  _hospital bills,_ scraping to pay rent-“

“-and finances are tricky-“

“-I had to pass on going to _college_ -“

“-we couldn’t just write a check to Spid-“

“-all because _you’re not paying me for actual work_ -“

“Peter, calm down-“

“-and now you’re kicking me off the team because YOU’RE VIEWING IT AT VOLUNTEER WORK!” He is breathing heavily. He shouldn’t be breathing heavily, he shouldn’t be so angry, he shouldn’t be so openly emotional, not now.

But, fuck, was that a blow.

The room is silent. Bruce is shifting from foot to foot and Steve and Clint are refusing to meet Peter’s eye. Even Tony seems a bit taken aback by that last outburst.

Finally, Natasha speaks, and Peter would turn to face her if he wasn’t busy glaring at Tony so that he would feel his wrath the moment he looks away from the door.

“Peter, we’d be glad to help with your rent. I’m sorry you weren’t getting paid before-“ Peter intensifies his glare- “-but we can fix that now. Even if you don’t work with us.” He considers turning to glare at her, but, really, Tony deserves it more than anyone.

“And you know you can always use our hospital, Peter,” Steve chimes in. “And quite frankly I’m surprised you haven’t-“

The anger drains away almost immediately, leaving him so very tired. “They’re not my hospital bills, Mr. American, they’re my aunt’s,” he mutters. “An aunt that I could have been helping out a lot more than I have been.”

Finally, Tony looks up at him. He doesn’t even wince. Peter is disappointed. “Look, I’m sorry, kid-“

“I swear to god, if you call me that one more time I’m going to web you upside down to the ceiling for a week.” There is no more venom in his voice, and he really hopes that no one else heard his voice crack at the end. He wishes that he could go back to being pissed, but the hurt and the fear are back and it takes too much of energy that he doesn’t have to feel angry.

“He’ll die,” Clint chimes in, as though Peter’s voice had not cracked on the last word, and Peter really appreciates that.

“Hopefully,” he mumbles.

Tony’s frown deepens. “Okay. Fine, Spiderman-“

“ _The hyphen!_ ” Too loud. Too crazy. Tony latches onto that.

“Spiderman, Spider-man! God, you can’t even- okay. Forget it. Whatever. I’m sorry you haven’t been paid. But, really, we didn’t know your identity. We couldn’t pay someone whose identity we didn’t know. And now, well. You’re too young for me to feel comfortable keeping you on our team.”

“I’d laugh if I wouldn’t follow up with murder.”

“I’m also sorry about your aunt, but we’ll fix it.”

“No, you won’t. I-“ he cuts off, the lump in his throat he had been successfully ignoring suddenly expanding, the yelling inside of his head intensifying. He will. Not. Cry. He is Spider-man, he is Spider-man, he is nineteen and he has been shot and still swung home five miles without shedding a tear. He will not-

He tries unsuccessfully to stifle a sob.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

No one speaks. The sun is rising at this point and he realizes that he is done. Even now, with the prospect of monetary aid, he is done. These people aren’t actually his friends, and they don’t actually want to help him, and Tony, at least, had used him.

He snatches his mask up off the floor from where he had thrown it with flourish during his Big Reveal. Frantically, he tries to get it on before a tear can slip out, but of course he doesn’t, and of course the stupid thing gets caught on his forehead and won’t pull down to cover the second and third and fourth tears. God, this is embarrassing.

Mask finally on, a bit crooked, he jabbs a finger at Tony. “I’ve been-“ _ignore the choked up voice, ignore the choked up voice_ \- “-Spider-man since I was fifteen. My uncle bled out and died because of me and I taught myself everything Spider-man knows and I’ve been below the poverty line my whole life and I still go out and buy fucking _spandex_ and sew the spider costume so Spider-man can fight crime so people can be safe and I-“ _you’re getting hysterical, none of this makes sense, cut it out, cut it out!_ “-have been alone in all of this-“ _don’t go personal, stop, for god’s sake-_ “-for the longest time and terrified to reveal this identity-“ _idiot, idiot!_ “-because I have an ailing aunt and used to have a loving girlfriend and I can’t even go to college and now, oh-ho, _now_!” That’s it. He’s screwed. “When I tell the people I’ve fought alongside! I tell you who I am! You immediately turn on me!” _stop now, stop now, please._ “I just- you were okay with Spider-man! Why does every single person in this world hate Peter Parker?” _Fuck!_

And then: _Fuck_.

And then: Fuck.

And then: “Fuck.”

Not the thing to say. Not what he meant to say. That’s his ending?! That’s-

They’re silent. Oh, god, they’re silent.

He wants to leave and he’s still in the middle of this fucked-up meeting circle they had set up at the beginning. And everything is awful and he hears his breath catching in his throat.

So he does what he can do.

He turns and runs, (beautiful, Peter, really beautiful) slipping through Natasha and Bruce, scampering over to the window and- maybe a little petty, yes- ignoring the still-open one to instead to throw himself through the glass of the closed window.

The wind is rushing and he falls among the glass, letting himself go limp for one glorious moment of blank mind before he has to snap back to reality.

_What the hell was I thinking? Peter and his big mouth, Peter and his fucking problems, Peter and his-_

He curls up and screams as he falls, hoping any early risers below will assume it’s one of his typical joy-of-free-falling-and-flying screams, before he shifts quickly until he can throw out a web onto the next building over, ignoring the nausea that rises up in his throat and the sharp pain in his shoulder when the web pulls taunt and swings him forward.

He doesn’t look back as he throws himself between the buildings, higher than he usually does, making his way back towards his apartment.

He can fight alone again, even on the big missions. He’s done it before.

Another web, another swing, the familiar rise and fall of his stomach much more sickening than it’s been in a long time.

He’s going to vomit, he thinks, remembering how he ripped off his mask.

His freak-out wasn’t anonymous. They can put a crying face to the costume. They can find his history and see everything that has happened and-

He’s sick. He’s really, really sick.

Peter tries to ignore how tight his chest is, making it hard to breathe, and his mistakes, still piling up, and focuses on getting home.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey, what was your GPA in high school?” Bruce asks. Tony tries to catch the number on the sheet displayed on the monitor in front of Bruce, but the window is swiped to the side before he can read it.

“Um. Four point ten, I think.” He knows. “Why? What’s the kid’s?”

Bruce’s lips tighten before he says, “Four point five-oh.”

Tony scowls. “How the fuck is that even possible?”

Bruce shrugs, flipping through more papers, the sheets he’s flicking off to the side sliding over to Tony’s screen. “Lots of AP classes in the early years. Full IB program in the last two.”

“What the flying fuck is an IB program?”

Bruce shrugs, and Tony sees him bite back a smirk. “Something better than AP, I guess.”

“Yeah, well. If I’d’ve known about some fucking EB program I’d’ve taken that,” he mutters, reaching for his glass. “’Least I went to college.”

Bruce scoffs, spinning on his chair to face Tony. “’Least you had a rich dad and great social standing.”

Tony’s jaw creaks and he tosses back a shot of whiskey, immediately reaching for the small bottle to pour another. “Yeah, well, Pete coulda taken up the offer of those scholarships.”

“You know damn well-“

“Yeah, yeah, the fucking sickly aunt. Like-“ He pauses, trying to keep his words crisp. “-that’s any excuse.”

God, when did he become such an asshole?

“’Besides,” he said, before Bruce could ask him the same thing, “we paid her bills. Stuffed more money than he could ever want into that account.” The guilt was beginning to spin more viciously in his stomach. Peter’s bank account- which had looked like his GPA, come to think of it- was now into the six digits; should be into seven by next week. So why the persistence of this guilt? He runs his hands through his hair and scrubs at his face.

“Yeah. We’re regular saints.”

“Look, I really don’t need your shit right now, Banner.”

Bruce glares at him. “Tony, you know as well as I do that we both need more shit than any person on this goddamn planet. I mean, for god’s sake, what hasn’t gone wrong in this kid’s life?”

“He didn’t have the chance to know his parents.”

“Oh, yeah. Great. Okay, well, chalk that up to Peter being one lucky son of a bitch.”

“Look, you’re looking way too far into this.” Tony was being unreasonable. He knew he was. He knew that they should go over to the kid’s apartment, apologize, and beg for him to be on their team permanently.

But Tony had never been very good at admitting when he was wrong, so. Here he was, trapped in yet another game of pretending-to-wear-down-over-an-argument-both-parties-knew-he-had-lost-until-he-deemed-he-could-loose-with-pride.

Bruce began to flip more papers over onto Tony’s screen. He glances at them before turning away pointedly. Just because he knows he’s being a capitol-C C-word doesn’t mean he can stop.

“What’re those, your collection of Poor Parker Papers?” He knocks back another glass. Why was his tolerance so fucking high? It wasn’t fair.

“Tony, you have to-“

“I don’t have to do anything,” he snaps. “I don’t have to do _shit_. I owed Spider-man money, which has been paid. But Peter Parker? I owe him _nothing_ , and the rest of the team was with me. Even you.”

Bruce winces. “It’s-“

“Look,” Tony interrupts, jabbing the power button and enjoying the small _tssw_ sound of the screen shutting off. “Dying family, bullying, molestation- I don’t give a shit!” Bruce twitches violently and Tony watches something shift in his back, cracking him slightly larger. Concerning, but… he is about to ignore this and go on to prove some point that he’s not sure of yet when his shirt is grabbed and his face is suddenly inches from Bruce’s, the other man’s eyes an unnatural shade of green, his shoulders slightly larger than normal.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” he hisses, and Tony jerks back, slapping at the hand wrapped in his shirt and tearing himself out of Bruce’s grip.

“I’ll be in the downstairs lab,” he mutters, and, like the mature man he is, kicks his chair so it rolls across the room as he leaves.

  

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce rarely lets his anger get the best of him these days. But, god, is it hard to ignore it today.

Tony slunk out of the lab and Bruce left shortly after he calmed down enough to loose all traces of green and mean.

Well. All visible traces.

He is not sure with whom is he more angry: himself or Stark. Sure, Stark basically bullied the kid out of the room and has been the most ungodly insensitive being on the face of the planet for the past few days (he shudders when he thinks back on some of the things Tony’s said), but he himself just stood idly by and let it happen. He was even going to argue against the boy, for Christ’s sake, just to keep peace between him and the other Avengers.

He stomach rolls and he slams the next door he walks through. Normally, he’d go straight for the lab. Work out his aggression with tiny, breakable objects that don’t fit as they’re supposed to and wires that short out every other time a switch is flipped.

Right now, though, the back of his head is pounding and he knows that he’d probably end up destroying the lab the second something didn’t work correctly.

He sighs and changes directions, heading towards his room to change. A jog it is, then, as much as he detests exercise in most of its forms. Especially those outside and in public. But maybe some trees will give him a Zen moment.

And if he’s heard of a an increase in sightings of Spider-man hanging out parks, so what? There’s a million and one parks in every city. Not like his random choice of park will be the kid’s stake-out for the evening.

He steps into his room and heads over to the dresser, trying his best to hide the tiny jump he does when he sees Natasha sitting, cross-legged, on his desk chair.

“You been waiting long?”

She shrugs, watches as he pulls out sweats and a jacket. “Not too long. You going to find Peter?”

His doesn’t blink, staring down at the jacket in his hand, and presses his lips together. “No.”

She smiles at him from across the room. “It’s so cute that you still think you can trick me. Keep doing it, though. I love when you purse your lips like that.”

He grins, turns to her. “Yeah, okay, but is it really lying if you were only passively planning it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well. Oops.”

She stands, and only then does he notice that she is wearing a ridiculously bright blue tracksuit.

“So you’re coming along?” A nod, and then she’s walking towards the door, not slowing her pace as he throws on the jacket and almost trips on the sweats in his haste to follow her.

He wants to ask her questions, but instead they let the elevator ride go by in silence. At one point, he almost opens his mouth to speak, but then she grabs his hand and squeezes it once, and even though she has let go by the time the doors open, he knows they’ll talk later.

Once they’re out of the building, Nat immediately breaks into a sprint, and Bruce’s stomach drops at the sight of that blue suit weaving through the crowd and the thought of not only doing exercise, but doing _her_ exercise.

It’s very difficult to keep up.

They pretend to jog haphazardly for a bit before bee-lining towards Peter’s address- of course she would have it memorized, too- and the run-down park across from it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter has yet to go home.

It’s only his second year in apartment rental, but already he has somehow managed to upgrade from super-shitty to not-super-shitty. And even though the water pressure takes off skin and the ceiling is warped with spills from the upstairs neighbor’s tub and the carpet smells like pee from the cat the last tenant must have housed illegally, he loves it.

But as much as he loves it, and as fun as it is to hole up for a few days in darkness and skirt his responsibilities, there is always been a special magic to working himself absolutely ragged while simultaneously flat-out avoiding responsibilities and throwing his life to hell.

So that’s what he has been doing.

In his backpack, he can feel his cell phone vibrating, but he doesn’t bother to pull it out. It’s Aunt May, he knows. (Who else would be calling?) He should pick up, really. He is currently not fighting crime. And he probably will not be fighting crime soon, what with that whole No One Robs Anyone At Noon, Dumbass thing that happens so often.

But.

He’s so tired.

And it has nothing to do with that big Fuck Up four or five days ago.

He takes a deep breath before raising himself from the crouch he has been in, ignoring the light-headedness that accompanies a five-day Skittles-only diet and a cat-naps-only sleeping schedule. He should go home. He should sleep. Call work, apologize, beg for them to forget they ever left a You’re Fired Don’t Come Back voicemail on day three. He’s nice; if he can come up with a good enough excuse they should let him back. The boss knows about his Aunt and-

He won’t do that. And not just because he doesn’t deserve a second chance. But because-

He stutters over his thoughts, trying to keep the self-deprecating ones at bay.

Because he never liked that job anyways.

Because he can find one with better pay and better hours.

Because when he’s out as Spider-man there is no Peter Parker.

Because- shit.

He throws out a web at the building next to him, lets the tautness pull him off of the ledge instead of running for it, and drops down easily to the ground. His feet scramble a bit more than usual, but he’s low on food and has always been a bit hypoglycemic, so it’s okay. Or it would have been, if his feet scrambling across the ground did not bring fourth the frustration tears.

He jams the bottoms of his palms into his eyes and curses, thankful that no one was around this particular street at the moment.

_Okay, Peter, chill. Seriously, you really need to chill._

He takes a breath to keep himself from spiraling down. He just needs food. More than Skittles, as amazing as they are. He needs an apple. A banana? Was it- What did Aunt May make...?

Usually, logic helps. Going back, following strings, but now all he can think of is Aunt May bringing him up cheese and crackers after he had broken a picture frame during a tantrum he had thrown and she wasn’t even mad because she is amazing and she knew he’d be okay and she ran her hand across his back and told him that he was a good boy even though he was sure wasn’t, and Uncle Ben came up and pretended to eat the crackers so that Peter would shove a few down through the tears and the start of laughter and-

He slumps to the ground, leans back against an alley wall, and dares himself to keep crying.

It’s been five days of almost non-stop movement and he has his rent and bills and his aunt’s rent and bills to pay, and he owes two street vendors money (bless them) and he no longer has a job and he no longer has a team and his fucking _feet_ won’t find _purchase_ and he’s being so fucking ridiculous but he cannot control himself, and if he’s being honest-

He hears feet slapping the pavement, and for one moment he considers just sitting there, hoping whoever is jogging past won’t see Spider-man crouching in the alleyway with a wet mask, and deciding that he won’t care if they do.

But then he realizes that that is Peter talking, not Spider-man, and he shoves himself to his feet and grabs onto the wall, climbing up a few feet as the steps- two people, he thinks, one clearly in shape and the other clearly out of it- grow closer, and he twists and shifts and ends up standing on the wall, parallel to the ground. It is, he decides, a strange position to have chosen, but it's what he has chosen, so he'll stick with it. His stomach and leg and neck muscles are screaming to keep his posture straight and uncaring, and, man, he has to do this more often if he wants to hold it for longer than it takes some people to walk past the alleyway.

He hopes they won’t see him, and he can go on with his day without having to talk or wave or smile at anyone. Get back to... whatever it was that he was doing.

 

The footsteps reach the end of the alley. He blinks as a woman in a hideous blue suit runs a few steps, then suddenly whirls and faces him, his stomach dropping as she proceeds to make much more eye contact than he is comfortable making with an Avenger right now.

Bruce almost plows into her, his face beet red, his breathing raspy and loud.

“Nat, wha- Oh,” he huffs, catching sight of Spider-man, who is dipping dangerously low to the ground. “Oh,” he says again, and straightens, visibly holding his breath.

“Spider-man,” Natasha says, and then Peter’s head explodes with a red-black that has more to do with his rage and hurt than it has to do with any colors he associates with the Black Widow, and ignoring his now painfully twitching stomach muscles, he bends and slams his hands into the wall, starting to scramble upwards.

“Wait!” he hears Bruce wheeze. “Peter- we’re sorry!”

Peter pauses a few feet from the top of the building. He likes Bruce. (Liked?) (No. Likes, as much as he hates to admit that right now.) And something deep in his chest is really hoping for an all-out groveling, begging for him to be on the team. Realistically, it’s not going to happen. But he’s light-headed and his favorite scientist is calling his name and Natasha is wearing a bright color, so he stops crawling and glances over his shoulder.

“What?” he asks, and is proud that the scratchiness in his voice sounds pretty tough, and not like he’s been switching between complete silence and angry crying for the past few days.

“We’re sorry,” Bruce repeats. He’s not making eye contact and his hands are starting to twitch. “We- uh. I- um. We. We shouldn’t have been so. Um.”

Natasha elbows Bruce in the side, looks up at Peter. “He means that we were wrong. We were awful to you, Peter, and I’m sorry. Bruce and I would like to talk with you- eye level- if that’s okay.”

Peter, under his mask, frowns. What should be running through is head is their idiocy. He should be giving them the finger and the disappearing over their heads. He should twist their faces in his mind, make them into teary-eyed grovelers as he swings away, and then go home and sleep and then get a job.

Instead, he is wondering whether or not he should take his mask off.

He wonders if he should flip down. Or if he should be serious, show how grown-up he is. He wonders if it would be better for the tear-stained mask to stay on, or if they should see his young-looking but dry face.

He decides to do a flip down and keep the mask on.

Natasha gives him a small smile as he lands, and Bruce grins.

Peter, pathetic and desperate loser that he is, fights the urge to smile back at them.

There’s a moment of silence in which they all stand around, staring at each other. Natasha’s smile has dropped away, but Bruce’s is still there.

“So.” Peter coughs, half to clear his throat and half in an attempt to be funny. Why he thinks that coughing in this moment would be funny, he’s not sure. “You guys run together often?”

Nat answers, “No.” She doesn’t say anything else.

“Oh. Yeah. I used to jog, but. You know. Webs.” God, now he’s not even using his classic awkward humor spiel. He’s just actually being awkward. He's too aware of the fabric sticking to his face and is hoping desperately that neither of them will notice it. Or, at least, that neither will point it out.

“I wish I had one of those slingers,” Bruce says. His hands are deep in the pockets of his sweats now. “Wouldn’t have to die keeping up with Ms. Mile a Minute.”

Peter laughs, much too loudly. So does Bruce. Natasha remains silent.

“Peter,” she says, at the same time he stops laughing and says, “So,” and then they both fall silent, but only for a moment, because Natasha forges down the path that the other two are avoiding.

“Like I said, we’re sorry. We should not have treated you that way, no matter what we felt. You, to me- to us- are a part of the team, and kicking you out like that was uncalled for.”

Peter pushes down the feelings of hope rising in his chest. _Take it slow. Find out what’s going on. They might just have a new villain or something they need your help with_. His heart drops a bit with that thought, but not enough to crush all the optimism. Still, though-

“But you said-“

“What I said was wrong. I was trying to err on the side of caution, and that blinded me to what was actually right in the situation.”

“I- okay.” He feels like his ears are plugged with cotton. Something here doesn’t seem right. It’s going too well. He must have misheard.

Peter glances at Bruce, who is smiling faintly at Natasha. He turns to face Peter, though, once he feels his gaze.

“And I. Well, I’m sorry for being a coward. I knew it was wrong, but, I didn’t want to speak up against my team. Er, a majority of my team. Our team. I’m so, so sorry, Peter.”

Peter grins then, privately, beneath his mask. It’s actually true. They’re not lying. Something heavy is being lifted from his chest, and he can no longer keep the hope down; it explodes inside of him, the joy sparking through his bones. He’s a part of the team! His team. _Our team!_ He’s back on, they’ve admitted they were wrong; he’s going to be a member again, he’s going to be with friends- he’s-

He feels like doing a cartwheel. He was never much of a cartwheeling person, but right now that’s all he wants to do. He settles for his next inclination, which is to shout.

“This- that’s great!” He says, and then, at last, he whips up his mask, suddenly full of energy. “I’m, oh my god, I’m so glad you guys said that, I’m so glad you guys trust me-“

Bruce smiles, reaching out and placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder. Natasha is smiling too, her eyes crinkling up. Peter does a little hop and shakes out his arms, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“So what are we gonna do? Get ice cream? Throw a Welcome Back party? Oooh, any villains wreaking havoc? It’s been pretty quiet-“

He ignores their faces falling. He ignores it with all of his might.

“-but, hey, maybe we can just do some lab stuff, right Bruce?”

It’s obvious he can’t ignore the sudden change in mood. His voice goes high at the end there, desperate. Damn. He forces a smile, tightens his grip on his mask.

“What’s wrong, guys? It’s fine if there’s no party waiting, really, I can-“

“No one else has changed their mind, Peter,” Natasha says, voice quiet but strong. “The rest of them, they’re still… having some doubts.”

The heaviness comes crashing back.

“Oh.” _It’s cool. It’s okay. Three out of five ain’t bad. That’s. Not passing, but it's above the twenty per cent that it was. So it's closer to passing. Unless each person accounts for different levels of percentages. Thor is ten per cent. Nat is fifteen per cent. Bruce is fifteen per cent. Tony is fifty per cent. Tony is one hundred per cent._   

“So... What does this mean?” His voice doesn’t crack, thank god.

Nat shakes her head and his shoulders slump, and he can feel, again, so quickly, the exhaustion that he’s felt for so many days now. His whole body is heavy.

Once again, Bruce is not making eye contact. “Well. I guess. For right now. You’re an unofficial member? Of the official team. Completely official in Nat’s and my book, though-“

“Oh, goody,” Peter spits. “Glad for that. It’s great to be a part of the team.” _Reel it in, Peter, they’re being nice._ “Sorry. I just-“ he sighs, shuts his eyes for a moment. “I should go. Home. You know. I’m sure you all have my address, now, right? Just let them know it’s cool to send a letter or a fruit basket or a carrier pigeon to let me know if they change their mind.”

Bruce starts to speak, but Natasha cuts him off. “We’ll do our best to talk to them, Peter. We just wanted to let you know where we stand. You have allies right now.”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Hopefully you won’t flip back.” He lets out a dry laugh, flinches at himself, and goes to pull his mask back on. At least he’s not crying, this time. Thank goodness there’s only the crushing emptiness.

“Peter-“

“No, no, it’s cool. I can wait. I’ll wait it out. Two years at most, right? Or is Tony suddenly doing a twenty-five-and-older thing now?” Something is creeping up on him, on his mind. Static, or an ocean, or something.

Bruce is looking at the reflective patches of his eyes now that the mask is on. “Well, with Tony... did you see the payments?”

For a moment Peter’s head goes blank, and he has to tell himself to blink beneath the mask. Then: “I got paid?”

Bruce shrugs, looks at the wall behind Peter. “It’s not much. Well, it’s a lot, money-wise. I meant it’s not much for all we’ve put you through. But I hope it helps some. A lot. I mean, again, fiscally, it should help a lot.”

Peter is almost afraid to breathe. His heart is beating slowly and his hands are so far away. He feels strange. Kind of floaty.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, distantly _. Here I’ve gone._

“Thanks,” he says, and his voice sounds weird to his ears. "For the money. And the support." Before either can respond, he throws his arm up- slow motion, but quickly enough- and then he is gone, swinging up on a web, making his way on autopilot towards his apartment.

He’ll get there and, finally, go to sleep. Then check his bank account, see what it’s at. If it’s Tony paying him with Bruce’s persuasion, there’ll probably be plenty to pay off all his bills, all his aunt’s bills.

He almost hits a flagpole as he pulls himself up to the roof of his building.

He’s going to do all of that, and then…

Then sleep some more. And then some more.

And wait.

At least he has money this time.


	3. Chapter 3

He allows himself a day of fretful sleep before focusing on thoughts of his aunt to pull himself out of bed.

Her bills have been piling up for a long time. They’ve been paying them off much more slowly than the hospital would like, but since she worked there for so many years one of her old nursing apprentices was able to smudge some of the due dates so they haven’t gotten any late fees.  
Yet.

It’s a ridiculous amount they owe. Well past what they would ever realistically be able to pay off on their own. He honestly does not expect Tony’s money to cover it. So when he logs into his account and sees the number in the top left of the screen, his jaw drops.

And when he hurriedly logs into their payment plan for the hospital and finds a message reading BALANCE: 0.00 – Thank you for your payment! his heart stops.

Once it restarts, he lets out a surprised belt of laughter and his leg starts bouncing uncontrollably.

The next hour passes in a blur. He prepares, as he always does. He pays off his rent for the year. (The year!) He pays off Aunt May’s rent for the year. (The year!) Electric, gas, water- paid, paid, paid. He transfers the max amount of money that he can into his savings, and sends a thousand dollars Aunt May’s way (transfer labeled ‘from irs- late tax refund??’ knowing she won’t raise a fuss about something to do with the government,). He works on a loose schedule that will allow him to give her what she needs without arising suspicion. He thinks, briefly, about getting her a nurse; someone to check in on her when he couldn’t, but he would never be able to explain the payments, and, besides, she would be cranky if someone showed up to her house claiming to know more about nursing and care than she did.

Still, he thinks, grinning, he can’t wait for her call.

In the meantime, he goes to the grocery store and treats himself to name-brand cereals and fresh bread. Checkout is slow, but with each _beep_ of a barcode swiped over the scanner his heart does a little jump, his smile gets a little bit harder to bite back. Looking at the plethora of plastic waiting for him at the end of the lane as he swipes his card (and then inserts the chip instead at the pointed stare of the checkout lady,) sends a wave of relief through him. Who needs team members when you’ve paid off all your bills and have more than enough left over to get three boxes of Fruity Pebbles?

He gathers his stuff and walks quickly out of the store.

At another point, he thinks, glancing down at the armload of bags he is carrying, he would have been more prideful. But he’s _earned_ this, hasn’t he?

(Hasn’t he?)

(Of course he has.)

But how?

(By being Spider-man!)

Spider-man is good.

Spider-man is good enough.  
He begins to name the elements to stop that train of thought, and only lets himself stop listing the elements once his thoughts wander over to how much it sucks lugging ten awkward bags a half mile back to his apartment. Thank god he forgot the milk gallon.

Oh, shit.

He forgot the milk gallon.

 

* * *

 

There’s a distinct smell to the overly-air conditioned gas station down the road. Some mix between old mop water and AntiFreeze. The daytime cashier, a kid he’s never seen before, flashes him a pink-and-blue-braced smile, laughing when she tells him that he needs to use the chip.

He laughs with her, uncharacteristically loose as Peter Parker. Who knew how much having enough money for food and rent would help one’s mood?

His phone starts to vibrate just as he wishes her a good day and grabs the gallon.

For a moment, he’s excited. Aunt May is the only one who calls him, and he’s been _dying_ for that conversation.

But when he pulls out his phone, the screen displaying STARK, T. in an impersonal Ariel font rather than his Aunt’s name and photo, his good mood all but shatters, replaced with a toxic mixture of anger and dread. And indecisiveness, but that’s usually present outside of every life-and-death situation that he has ever been in, so he’s not sure if he should count it, even though it’s probably about to ruin his life.

_Answer, or let it go to voicemail? Hit ‘END’ before it finishes ringing so Tony knows he’s being ignored? Hit ‘TALK’ and pretend like I didn’t see the caller ID before he answered? Pick up in the middle of the voicemail? Can I even do that?_

He swipes for ‘talk’ on the tenth and last vibration, hoping that maybe the phone will decide that he’s too late to answer.

Tony doesn’t even wait for Peter to say anything before he’s talking.

“You get the money?” he asks, aggressive, curt.

Peter is silent for a second. Then: “Yes.” He tries to make it equally aggressive, equally curt, but he doesn’t manage to do so, and curses himself for sounding just on the weaker side of indifferent, curses himself for getting his hopes up about any apologies, about any invitations.

“Good, good.”

They are silent for a while. Peter moves away from the entrance of the store and begins to walk home, unsure of whether he should hang up or stay on the phone. If he should wait for Tony to speak or if he should say something.

But what would he even say? He’s leaning towards _fuck you_ , but that’s tacky. Expected. He needs to think of something both biting and epiphany-inducing.

Unless he should stay calm? Would that win him points? Show his maturity by arguing eloquently. Try to change the impression he left Tony with when he leapt out of the tower sobbing.

He winces, shoves the memory back, and rounds the corner.

Before he can decide on a path and come up with something great, awe-inspiring, and life-changing, Tony starts to talk again.

“So, I know things are a little rocky right now.”

Okay. So he’s going to go into it like that.

“But, really, what did you expect?”

And so! There’s Peter’s decision: biting replies it is! ‘What did he expect’? What did he _expect?_

“Oh, I don’t know,” he spits. “Maybe support from the team I’ve helped for _years_? Maybe acceptance from my friends?“

“Friends?” Tony laughs out the word. Peter halts in the middle of the sidewalk. He knows what’s coming, and he wants to hang up.

(He wants to have never picked up. He wants to have never shown his face.)

“What part of simply fighting alongside us led you to believe we were friends?” Tony chuckles at the end, as though he were asking someone why they thought the Earth was flat.

Okay, so. That… really, really hurt.

“You were a helpful asset before, and you’re gonna be a nuisance from now on. Nothing more than either of those things.”

Peter’s chest feels funny. Like it’s both going to explode and implode. Someone bumps into him, and he begins walking forward again, his apartment building in sight.

His mind is reeling, thoughts catching and detaching. Not friends? That’s so fucking low. He cannot believe-

Actually, he realizes, as he stumbles on a crack, he can. His thoughts start to click, like when he’s solving a science problem. Except he rarely gets this kind of clarity with people. But right now, things are falling into place.

This is Tony. And yes, it hurts like hell, as it was intended to. But he knows that’s what Tony’s trying to do. To scare him away from the team or something else just as stupid along those lines. Not friends? Not friends his ass. He takes a deep breath. Nat and Bruce with him in the alley; Thor in the tower; Clint after a battle, Sam during takeout stints. Even Tony- fiddling alongside him with small projects in his lab.

His heart starts to beat again. The ache in his chest disappears some. Not enough to forgive, but enough that he can fight back.

Tony chose the biting path, after all- Peter’s not going to chicken out just because his feelings were hurt for a second or two. Just because he’s about to try to hurt the guy who once said Peter was his most special lab buddy.

“Sorry,” he says. “It was the other members of the team to which I was referring.”

He’s hoping it’ll knock Tony to the ground. Right on his ass, gaping like a fish, crushed under the understanding that Peter doesn’t think of him as a friend.

Instead, Tony scoffs. “Sure.” His voice goes high and airy. “’Anything you say, Mr. Stark!’”

Peter bites his tongue, curses his younger self, and pushes on. “So, yeah. I wasn’t expecting them to cower down under your rule, but I guess I’d be afraid to go against my billionaire _boss_ , too.” He enunciates the ‘boss’ part, almost hissing it.

Tony scoffs. “They know I’m right.”

Peter mouths a few curse words, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder and swapping the milk jug to his other hand. His biting remarks are not going as planned.

Tony goes on.

“Look, I get it: this is difficult and you hate me. And I would too, just so you know. I was young and stubborn once.”

“Only one of those is a ‘once.’”

Tony sighs. “The money-“

“I don’t care about it. I don’t even want it.” _Oh, god, don’t say that._ “I- wait, I mean- I-“ _Stop fucking stuttering!_ He takes a deep breath, tries to make his tone even. “Tony, we both know that, at this point, no matter what, you’re not gonna let me join _just_ to prove a point to the others.” He can hear Tony’s teeth clack together. Good. Maybe he’ll break one. He reaches his building and starts to jab the code in, enunciating each word with a violent poke. “I mean, come on! Three of your team are on my side. But you’ve had your say, and you have your weird need to control people, and so I’m off unless you yourself can think of some bullshit reason to ‘let’ me on! I know it, you know it, and this whole money thing is just you trying desperately to alleviate some of your guilt.”

He hears Tony suck in a deep breath. “Not even close, kid,” he says.

“Spot on, actually. And okay. I don’t want to talk to you anymore. There’s nothing you’re going to say that’s going to help.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. He has _no clue_ what the original, the intended, or the end thread of this conversation was or is. But he’s just so _angry_ he doesn’t really care. None of it was good, and that fact is good enough for him to remain livid.

And made all the worse because Tony is still talking.

“It’s hard to explain to you. You’re still so naive. When you’re older, you’ll see I’m right.”

Peter’s teeth grind against each other. He’s absolutely seething. He throws his head back and opens his mouth, screaming silently, and then begins to stalk down the hallway.

“’When I’m older!’ As if age has anything to do with maturity, _especially_ in a situation like mine!”

“You’re mature, yeah, but you’re still a child. And I will _not_ be responsible for a child’s death.”

“I’m an adult,” Peter hisses, stabbing his key into the lock. “A legal adult. I could go off and fight a goddamn war if I wanted to!” He whips the door open, slamming it into the wall.  
“Then do that. But leave the really dangerous guys to us.”

Peter hangs up, using all his self-control to keep from crushing the phone in his hand.

What is he going to do? He begins to pace rapidly from one end of the living room to the other. Even if Bruce and Nat convince others- even if Tony is in such a small majority that he has no choice but to secede- even if he is _begged_ to join the Avengers- how could he? His lifelong (Spider-man’s life length) dream of joining the Avengers is crushed. How could he work with Tony after what he’s said? After how he’s acted?

And why _is_ he being so mean? Peter’s never seen him like this; never heard him like this. Even with enemy corporations, even with arrogant SHIELD agents. What the _fuck_ is his problem? It’s almost unreal, how awful he’s being.

Or is it? Tony only started acting like this once he ‘met’ Peter himself. And, yes, he’s being worse than _Tony_ , but… he’s not being worse than, say, Flash. Peter’s heart drops. This whole issue is, at its core, because of Peter. Peter’s unmasking, Peter’s face, Peter being Spider-man. Is Tony the only one that’s open about not being able to stand him?

But so soon after unmasking? That doesn’t- he shakes his head. Of course it makes sense. It’s _Peter_ , it’s _him_.

He grinds his fists into his eyes. He needs to stop thinking like this. It’s not good- he needs to stay strong, and to stay strong he needs to stay confidant, he cannot slip into another fit of destruction. Even if he probably-

_Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium. Boron, Carbon-_

He makes it to Neon before he throws himself onto the couch, grabs a pillow, and screams into it.

Life sucks.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t an hour later that the police radio- nabbed and repurposed from the station dumpster- goes off about a bank robbery.

He’s in his suit and flying out the back window before they end the announcement.


	4. Chapter 4

He gets to the bank in record time, arriving just as one of the walls explodes, the inner wall of a safe bursting through in all its seven-ton-steeled glory.

Hoo boy.

There’s a collective scream from the crowd- mostly one of joy. New Yorkers, he thinks, are just plain berserk.

He smirks. Says the web-slinging mutant currently attaching himself upside-down to the overhang next door.

He scans the street in front of him. The police still aren’t fully set up, but he can hear the faint _whump whump_ of the SWAT team helicopters drawing closer. All civilians are behind barricades a hundred feet back, at least, and he can see a steady stream of people exiting on the far side of both buildings adjacent to the bank. He wonders, briefly, if there are hostages inside, but dismisses the thought. No laser-lights shining through the windows.

Okay, so they think there’s a bomb. Makes sense- unless there’s a super in there, that door didn’t explode just because the one and only Spider-man came flying through.

Glancing down, he can make out the image of someone emerging from smoke. _Got ‘em._

Time to fly.

Spider-man drops, tucking himself forward and flipping, dropping smoothly down onto the ground just outside the hole. It’s hard to see- there’s still rubble and plaster raining down- but his goggles prevent anything from getting into his eyes. He can just make out the man, silhouetted by the flashing red lights from inside the bank, flanked by two others carrying large bags (cliché alert!). They’re walking slowly towards him. Spider-man takes a step forward, raising his hands, the upside-down I Love You poised at the guy who is clearly the leader and the one on the left, because Peter’s always secretly wanted to be left-handed.

The men freeze.

And, for some reason, Peter doesn’t press down. They stare at each other. Peter can make out a lithe build in the leader, but that’s about it. The guy’s shoulders are hunched and he is raising an arm towards Peter.

_Okay, now would be the time to shoot your web._

The man’s hand is empty, though. And when the humming of his spidey-sense starts up, the focus is on something behind him, not on any of the guys in front of him.

He twists his head, tilting his body when he hears movement. Four guys? A knife-wielding getaway waiting outside?

No, not dangerous movement: the grate on the air duct behind Spider-man is rattling. He can’t see anyone behind the mesh, so what…?

Out of the corner of his eye, Spider-man sees the man wave his arm, like Peter used to do as a child when he trailed his hand over the breeze out the car window on the highway. Okay, so the guy’s a few Cheerios short of a full bowl, but what the _fuck_ is-

Suddenly, the grate flies off of the duct, slamming into Peter and sending him forward to the ground. His head hits the concrete painfully; pain bursting through his molars and temples. His cheek is ripped open by small rocks. Before he can even begin to try to tear himself free of the grate, he is thrown again, this time backwards into the wall. His head smashes into the apartment building, and he can hear the crack of the brick beneath his skull. He grunts, his head screaming, his spidey-sense an almost-overload that’s now warning him of whatever’s in front of him.

_Figures. Really great system you got there, Peter._

Instead of dropping to the ground, though, like he’s been expecting, he’s stuck there against the wall. The grate seems to be pressing into him more and more, and when he looks up he notices the man has walked towards him and is now only a foot or so away.

Peter clenches his teeth and tries to throw his arms out, to break out of the grate. It should have been easy- it was thin, a weak metal meant only to keep out big pieces of trash.

But, straining harder and harder, he realizes he is stuck. The man stands there, staring at him, head tilted slightly, a small smile on his lips.

What an arrogant-

“What’s your gimmick?” Peter asks. “AC Man who got tired of breaking things to charge single mothers more when he fixes them?”

The man takes a deep breath and another step forward. The grate around Peter tightens even more. Oooh, not good. Any additional squeezing and he won’t be able to breathe.

The man waves his arm and the two that had been standing behind him dart off, towards the back of the alley, and leap over the fence.

Peter almost points out that the police are over there, too, but decides he’ll let the guys find out through trial-and-error.

He turns his attention back to the leader, obviously someone with powers, who is walking towards him again.

The man grins, a wicked glint of teeth, the first sign of aggression that Peter has seen. “My gimmick is this,” he says, and the metal around Peter tightens just a hair more. It’s starting to get really hard to breathe.

“I’m Mister Magnet,” he growls. “And you’re about to die.”

Peter freezes. His brain stops working. The pound of his heart disappears. He blinks at… Mr. Magnet.

“Are- are you serious?”

The grate around him tightens suddenly, violently, and he feels a bone in his chest crack.

The air rushes out of his lungs, and the metal band around him is too tight to allow him to take in another breath. He feels his eyes bulge, and the tingling that had started in his fingertips is now a throbbing.

“Stupid, ignorant boy! Speaking to me as though you were not about to perish.”

Peter tries to respond, his choice comment being on the use of ‘persish’, but can’t. He can’t breathe, and while he could hold his breath for an abnormally long time, he _has_ no breath. The edges of his vision are starting to spot. So-

A man named _Mr. Magnet_ could end up killing him.

God, that would be embarrassing. He really, really can’t let that happen.

Then he remembers the grate really isn’t that big. Both of his legs are free.

_Could you be any more stupid?_

He kicks, his foot connecting with _Mr. Magnet’s magnetic length_ \- if Mr. Magnet doesn’t kill him his wit will- successfully dropping the guy to the ground.

Dropping two guys, actually, since the grate and Peter drop as well.

He throws his arms out, ripping himself free from the grate, and springs up to latch onto the building. The spots dance faster in his vision, but he does his best to ignore them, finally throwing that web at Magnet, who has dropped to his knees.

Peter takes several deep breaths, his lungs burning, and studies the webbed form of Magnet. He had left his face out, but allowed liberal use of the web, almost coating the entirety of his body. He obviously relied on those hand motions, and Peter wasn’t going to allow him use of his limbs.

Magnet raises his head, glaring at Peter. Even though he can’t see it, Peter grins at him and waves. “It’s okay, buddy! First robberies _never_ go well!”

Magnet’s eyes are blazing, his lips curled back. Jeez, this guy’s worse than Logan.

“So, since you’re down, and since your friends ran basically _right into_ a police barricade- did you rope them in through a Craigslist ad? Or a flier on a billboard?- I think my work here is done.” Peter claps his hands together twice and hops down. His head hurts a little, and his lungs are still aching, but overall? This was a pretty easy fight. Even if he had to go dirty. But, hey, the guy was about to kill him. He’s not gonna apply street fighting rules to a magnet about to suffocate him.

He’s wondering whether he should leave Mr. Magnet here or take him directly to the police when Magnet throws his head back and starts to scream. Really loudly. Peter flinches, claps his hands over his ears.

“Hey! Hey, calm down! Jail isn’t that bad!”

And, of course, then his spidey-sense starts to go off. Great.

He ducks and rolls just as Magnet smashes his chin into his chest and an alley light rips itself from the apartment wall and craters into the space where Spider-man was. He curses and twists, ready to cover the asshole like a mummy, when another lamp smashes into his hand. Nothing breaks, thank goodness, but man it _stings_.

“Hey!” He snaps. “Not cool!” He raises his other hand, super ready to be done with this, when another thrum of his spidey-sense has him yanking it backwards again.

A bright blue light throbs past, burying itself into the ground. It smokes for a moment, and Peter stares, mouth open, before whipping around to see Iron Man laying across the rooftop, like Rose on the couch in _Titanic_. (Except, praise the universe for small graces, not nude.)

Peter bristles, seeing red. Iron Man _shot at him_. With a _blast_. Kept him from nabbing a _villain_. He doesn’t care, suddenly, that Tony doesn’t like him. _He_ doesn’t like _Tony_.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?!” he shouts. Normally, yeah, he’s not gonna curse (this loud) as Spidey. JJJ does well enough with twisting heroic stances into menacing glowers- he can’t imagine what the guy would do with something actually bad. But he’s so pissed right now. Iron Man _shot at him._ After an entire conversation about how young he was! About how little he mattered! He sends a web up at Tony, aiming for the faceplate, but the suit must do something because it falls short of hitting him.

“It’s okay, kid, we got this,” Tony calls down, and rolls off the ledge, twisting so he can do that stupid Iron Man flying thing before lowering himself to the alley.

Peter growls ( _now_ who’s like Logan) and takes a step towards him. “No, _I_ got this!” he says, smacking his chest with his fist. “It’s already gotten! Already taken care of! By me!”

“Is it, though?” He can hear the smirk, and he wants to vomit. Iron Man points behind him, and Peter turns to see that Magnet used one of the lamps to rip a hole through the webbing- which _should not_ be possible- and is now rounding the corner, leaving the alley.

Peter doesn’t even bother to respond to Tony. He’s off, tearing down the narrow street, grabbing and sticking onto the corner wall with his hand to round it more cleanly when he reaches the sidewalk.

Magnet is probably only thirty feet ahead of him, and he has a clean shot, thank goodness. But he can hear the whirring of Tony’s suit and throws the web fast and desperate, missing him. He swears. He _has_ to catch this guy.

He throws another web that goes wide as Iron Man catches up and- damn it!- passes him, Tony saluting him as he flies past.

“Go home if you can’t keep up, Spidey!”

Peter clenches his teeth, leaping up so he can crawl along the wall. He scurries along, watching Iron Man close in on Mr. Magnet.

And then Mr. Magnet throws a hand out behind him and a table from the store he’s passing crashes out through the window and directly into Iron Man, sending him violently into the ground.

“Oooh, that’s gotta hurt!” Spider-man shouts. He can hear Iron Man groaning. Peter grins, wide and toothy, and launches himself off the building, shooting a web at Mr. Magnet.

He catches Magnet’s foot, but has to leap backwards to avoid another table Magnet sends through the window. Just as he’s about to shoot another web, an arrow lodges itself in the ground next to Magnet and explodes with some sort of (presumably sticky) red goo that covers his legs and sprays several feet around him. Glancing up, Peter can see Hawkeye perched on top of a building, already loading another arrow. He thinks about taking a moment to inform Hawkeye that his web would have been sufficient, but decides against it. Too far away to shout comfortably.

He turns, aiming to pin Magnet’s arms to his body, then his body to the ground, but stops short when he see Black Widow flipping down from an alcove and knocking him down to the ground with a well-placed kick to his skull.

Ouch.

She’s so badass.

He shoots Widow a thumbs up. Which she does not return, but she does nod, so he’ll take it.

She bends down, pulling out some sort of binding tool from a pocket and grabs the man by his hair, yanking him up. His nose is bleeding and his eyes look hazy, but Peter is surprised to see that he’s still awake.

And then Magnet lifts an arm, and Peter is about to shout for Black Widow to be careful but she’s already doing a backflip- _a backflip!_ \- to the side, dodging the table that had previously smacked into Tony.

Magnet is still stuck in place, but his arms are free and before Spider-man can web them down he’s ripped several light posts from the street and is throwing them out in any direction.

For the first time, Peter remembers the crowd gathered around them. They’ve been pushed back further since the Avengers showed up, but not far enough to be safe from the posts.

He throws out several frantic webs, just trying to halt the posts in their path, hoping that Magnet has simply thrown them and is not pushing them.

He’s in luck, and manages to catch three of the four; he sees Iron Man shoot down the last one and tries not to be bitter, because if he hadn’t shot it down it could have killed people, but. It sucks to see him do something well.

Peter looks behind him and sees Widow dodging more tables. Hawkeye is shooting arrows, but it’s mostly for intimidation, Peter thinks. There’s not much he can do: he can’t kill the man in front of civilians, and Natasha is too close for him to shoot another goo arrow.

Spider-man’s time to shine.

He tosses a web onto the building and pulls himself up to get above the tables flying around Magnet. He sticks himself to the side of the building and sends another web down, successfully hitting one arm and latching it to his side.

Peter leaps back down to the street as Magnet sends one of the tables up at him, but it’s a better angle anyways, he reasons, and lands atop a car. Sure, the car alarm is slightly distracting, and he’s probably going to get another article calling for him to _stop being a coward, come forward, and be sued for property damage like a man!_ from JJJ, but those are molehills and he’s got a mountain to deal with.

Just as he’s about to pin down the other arm with a web, Magnet throws an arm forward, sending a light post javelin-style at Iron Man, who has been, to this point, flying around uselessly, much in the same boat as Hawkeye with his pulse beams but without the dexterity of Widow, flipping between the tables and landing kicks to the- still upright!- dude.

Iron Man flies up, dodging easily, but fails to see Mr. Magnet rip another light post from below.

Does Peter have time to web it back?

Yes.

Does Peter web it back?

Well. He really needs to focus on the villain in front of him.

The pole hits, wrapping around Iron Man’s stomach and slamming him back into the concrete wall of a department store, both the light post and Iron Man dropping heavily to the ground when the Black Widow whips a rock that smashes into Mr. Magnet’s spine and causes him to drop his arm.

Iron Man sits up, clearly woozy, even through the suit.

“Ha!” Peter shouts, loudly, "Look who's- _oof_."

A sewer grate slams into his chest, hard, throwing him back. Instinct kicks in quickly and he tucks himself into a ball around the grate, preparing to roll back up when he hits the ground. But instead of rolling and tumbling, the grate falling away, he is slammed into the road, grate still impossibly heavy.

And then he is sliding.

He is still pressed against the street, being shoved backwards. The concrete rips through his suit and his back lights up, the skin tearing against the hard rock beneath him. He let out a yelp and then a scream, the pain greater than anything, images of his spine littering the street flashing through his mind.

Gritting his teeth, he grabs onto the grate. He can feel its edges bending under his fingers, but he can’t lift it, shift it, or-

The grate crumbles in his hands, suddenly, and he stops moving in nearly the same instant.

He throws the metal disc- or, now, the metal accordion- to the side, chest heaving, his back hurting enough to darken the world. His entire body is burning- a rug burn more intense than any ever felt by anyone, he’s sure. It’s like he’s been lit on fire. Dipped in acid. The nerves, raw and exposed, are all touching things, rubbing, torn, screaming, sending panicky signals to a quickly overloading brain.

He needs to quit. Go to medical, get the strongest drugs they have, and sleep until he’s healed. He doesn’t remember ever feeling a torture like this.

But he can’t do that. Not with Iron Man right there, and especially not after he just made fun of him for getting knocked own.

He twitches his feet, taps his fingers. All in order. Which will be much better news when they’re healed and not in agonizing pain.

He feels like he isn’t breathing, but he can see his chest rising and falling rapidly. He has to get up. Now. He has to be the one to beat Mr. Magnet- he’s in front of everyone, Tony is here... and Nat, too. If he can’t win then how’s she gonna be on his side? And if she’s not, then Bruce could-

He staggers to his feet, swallowing another scream, and focuses back on Mr. Magnet just in time to see the Black Widow yank an arrow out of his redredred neck.

Guess it’s over, then?

Shoot. And he didn’t-

Didn’t-

What didn’t he do?

Hawkeye shouts something from above and Peter starts to glance up, but catches sight of half of his back in the reflection of a store-front window.

_Hamburger_ , he thinks.

_No, wait. T-bone._ ‘Cause he can see his spine.

He faints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i know that there was a villain named magneto? not until after i finished writing, when i googled titanium gold alley or whatever the fuck to double check that it wasnt magnetic. was i willing to give up mr. magnet? not a chance.


	5. Chapter 5

The machines Stark uses don’t beep. Even the heart monitors. Apparently, some people got caught up in tracking their heart rate. One of the super spies, after going through HYDRA torture, became so focused in on the beeping that she- accidentally and almost impossibly- nearly killed herself by focusing her heartbeat so low.

Peter’s not sure if the story is a hundred per cent true, but, regardless, when he wakes up, there is no beeping, despite him being IV’d nine ways to Sunday.

There _is_ a steady up-and-down motion. Like he’s floating in the ocean. Well, he thinks it’s like floating in the ocean. He’s never actually been to the ocean, but he imagines that this is what it feels like to lay on your back above the waves.

So, he’s on a boat, then. The idea makes him giddy. He’s never been on a boat.

He tries to sit up, to go to the window- _don’t they call it a hatch on a ship?_ \- and look out at the sea, maybe see a shark, but gets distracted looking around the room. It’s super white. Like, mega-white. Not the type of color you would expect in a room. Er, cabin. Brig? Or is that the jail? Port, maybe?

He realizes he’s been speaking aloud, and clacks his teeth together several times, turning his attention back to the room.

Whatever it is, it’s also all tile and plaster- no wooden planks or big metal bolts. Weird, but it’s obviously something Stark built, if the medical equipment is anything to go by, so maybe it’s a new-wave ship.

When he glances at the _Stark_ written across the medical equipment, something builds up in his throat, but he ignores the feeling and moves on.

No one is in the room with him. He faintly thinks that the Avengers should be in the room with him. They were that one other time. But that was in the hospital, not at sea. They’re probably all… um. Starboard? In the crow’s nest. On deck, all hands roping ropes and- _hey._ There’s a tube under his nose, blowing cold air.

He scowls, suddenly super-aware of how sensitive the air is making his upper lip and nostrils, and is about to remove it when he begins to worry about how he’ll breathe if they sink. Better leave it in, then, for now.

He blinks, extra-slow or extra-quick, he can’t tell.

Everything is… distant. And kind of warped. Like he’s in a Dr. Suess book.

He realizes that he can’t feel anything below his neck. Or, now that he thinks about it, above his neck. Or does he? The cold air is something. It really is cold- maybe he should take the tube away-

But then he’ll drown. He decides, again, to leave it, and focuses back in on the lack of feeling below his neck. He considers panicking for a moment, before he decides to test out whether or not he _should_ panic before actually panicking. But the thought- and the idea of panic- drifts on, and he can’t remember what he was going to do, so he wiggles his toes to watch the thin sheets fluff up and down. It makes him laugh, the way he can make the blanket move. _Of his own volition_. He’s so fucking powerful.

He jerks his toes faster and laughs so hard it gets hard to breath, which immediately stops him from laughing, because he can’t waste oxygen like this.

Sooner or later, his attention turns back to the tubes running around and into him.

Sluggishly, he lifts his arm, staring at the needle embedded in the crook of his elbow.

Normally, his stomach would twist and he’d have to do some deep breathing. Now, though, he’s pumped up on so many drugs that he just stares at it, narrowing his eyes.

“How does the blood know how to go into the needle?” he mumbles to his toes.

“It’s fluid coming out, actually.” Peter’s eyes snap over to the door, where… _Bruce,_ his mind provides in a sort of echo-y voice- stands, wringing his hands. He’s wearing a lab coat and looks exhausted, but he smiles at Peter. Peter smiles back, a wave of relief washing away- _ha_ \- the anxiety he didn’t even realize he was feeling at being alone.

“Bruce!” He says, happily, and decides to show Bruce something cool. “Have you seen my toes?”

“Ye-e-s,” Bruce says. Peter sighs, a little disappointed, but perks up as Bruce goes on.

“How’re you feeling, Pete?” he asks.

“Great!”

“Good to hear. You took a lot of damage, Peter-“

Peter crosses his eyes down so he can see the edges of the tube under his nose and then looks back up at Bruce.

“Where’s your oxygen supply?”

“My…? Oh.” Bruce shoves his hands into his pockets, and attempts to lean casually against the doorframe but ends up awkwardly pressing his shoulder into the jamb. He glances over at Natasha, who is standing to the side, waiting to make sure Peter isn’t… traumatized? Out of his mind loopy? Overwhelmed? It seemed like a good idea to stay out of the way when they were talking, but now that Bruce is confined to the doorway it seems kind of silly.

Whatever, though. She can make it look cool. Bruce, though…

He twitches, turns back to Peter. “I, uh, don’t need one.”

“What if the ship goes down?”

“The… ship?”

“Yeah.”

“Um, well, I’ll be fine.”

Peter grins at him. “Oh, good.” He pauses, and glances fretfully at the window. “Do you think the sharks are riled up?” he asks, and rolls his head side-to-side. “Because the seas are kind of rough today.”

Bruce stares at Peter, blinking. “Uh, what?”

Peter stops rolling his head side-to-side and glares at Bruce. “I don’t think it’s wise to be this ignorant about sharks, Bruce,” he snaps.

“Peter, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A flash of terror rockets through Peter, and he lets out a loud _“HEY!”_ as he grabs for the thin sheet covering him, yanking it up over his head.

“What? Peter, what’s wrong?” Bruce tenses, and Natasha prepares to take control of the situation.

“How do you know my name!” he shouts. The fear ebs and flows quickly, but he keeps the blanket up, just to be safe.

Natasha relaxes. Bruce doesn’t.

“You told me it!”

“I wouldn’t do that!”

“Peter,” Bruce says, and his voice is gentle enough that Peter lowers the sheet. “You did. And- uh, the others, too. About a week or so ago.”

Peter can feel his throat close up. He doesn’t remember that, but he trusts Bruce. He likes Bruce. And he just _yelled_ at him. “Oh. Oh, no. Sorry, Bruce. Bruce. I’m-“ he chokes on something. A sob, maybe, but he’s not sure. “I’m so sorry, I-“

“Hey, hey, uh, no, it’s… it’s fine, really-“

“No, it’s not!” Peter wails, and throws his head back onto the pillow.

“Careful!” Bruce shouts, and the loud tone brings fresh tears to Peter’s eyes.

“Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorrysorry-“

“Wow, he’s really got some issues,” Nat mutters into Bruce’s ear from her place just beyond the doorway. He shoots her an exasperated look and walks quickly over to Peter, who jerks his head to face the other way.

“Go away!” he says. His voice is thick. “You hate me, so just go away!”

Oh, boy.

“Peter, I don’t hate you,” Bruce soothes. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’re on a _lot_ of drugs to keep down the pain, and-“

“What?” That catches Peter’s attention, and he turns back to face Bruce. “What pain?”

“From your injury.”

“No, I’m not injured,” Peter says. “Look.” He sits there, staring at Bruce. Bruce clears his throat.

“Look at what, Peter?”

“My- um. The backflips.”

“You’re not doing any backflips.”

“I’m not?”

“No.”

“I thought- I mean, I can do them.”

“I know. I’ve seen them. They’re very good.”

Peter smiles at him. “Natasha taught me how to do them,” he says. “Because I could do them before but she said I wasn’t doing it right.”

“That was very nice of Nat.”

Bruce glances back at the door, where Natasha is now standing in view.

Peter’s focus shifts to her and he turns white. “Natas- I- wait, Black Widow! Oh, no- I- don’t kill him, I’m sorry-“

“He knows me, Peter,” she says, walking up to stand by Bruce.

Peter’s eyes narrow at her. “How do you know who I am?” he asks.

“It’s a damn good thing you’ve never been caught by HYDRA.”

“No, I drink plenty of water,” Peter says.

“Okay,” Bruce says, and claps his hand. “I think we should stop here, because you’re disoriented from the drugs. We’ll up them a little bit so you can sleep, and-“

“No! I can do this,” Peter says, suddenly frantic again. “I promise I won’t mess up.”

“There’s nothing to _do_ , Peter-“

“Tony pushed me away! I had the guy, but Tony ruined it! I _promise_ I had him, I’m not- I didn’t let him go, I could have done it-“

Natasha pushes past Bruce, leans over Peter. “What do you mean, Peter?”

Peter shrinks back, and suddenly he looks so young. “I- um, what?”

“What do you mean, that Tony pushed you?”

“I- who said that?” Peter laughs nervously, his eyes darting to the side and then back to Natasha.

She sighs, straightens up. Peter stays pressed into his pillow, his fingers twitching. “We’ll talk about this later,” Natasha says.

Peter nods, slowly, his eyes wide and never looking away from Natasha.

Bruce sends her a meaningful look, and she takes another step back. “Nat’s gonna go back upstairs-“

“It’s called _starboard_.” Peter is still staring at Natasha, unblinking. His knuckles are white, clutching the sheet. Bruce places one of his hands over Peters, tapping at a knuckle until he looks up at him.

“We’re not on a boat, Peter. We at the tower.”

“No, we’re definitely on a boat. It’s rocking super crazy.”

Bruce decides to let it go. “Okay. Nat’s going starboard-“ Peter’s eyes flick back over to her, momentarily, and Bruce snaps his fingers to draw his attention back to him- “-and I’m going to wait here. Next time you wake up, I’m going to lower the levels of the meds, so that we can take a look at your back, okay? It might hurt, but we’ll put you back on them, full strength, as soon as we’re done.” Bruce reaches over and presses one of the buttons that will speed up the drip.

“Aye, aye,” Peter says. “Ahoy, and… cast….“

“Strong drugs,” Nat comments as Peter’s eyes slip closed. Bruce sighs, and reaches for her hand. She grasps it, squeezing a little.

“So what’d you think he meant about Tony pushing him?”

“Not sure. But if I know Tony- and I do- I think we need to be a little worried.”

Nat shakes her head and scowls.

“What are we gonna do about this?” Bruce sighs.

Natasha gives his hand one last squeeze, and doesn’t say anything aloud.

 

 

* * *

 

  

She _should_ wait for the full story from Peter. Knowing Peter, though, he won’t say anything once he’s off the drugs. But she feels like has enough of the story. And she’s never really been one to shy away from a necessary confrontation. And with every step she takes towards the main room her anger grows. So.

Bruce is down with Peter, working aimlessly on some paper he’s been writing while he waits for him to wake up, as Natasha storms into the common room, where everyone is sitting. Some more tensely than others.

Thor immediately stands, his worry apparent “How is the young one? Tony informed me of his…” He drifts off as Natasha stalks past him. Clint stands, too, as she passes him, but he’s just one more person to ignore on her path to Tony.

He glances up from his phone as she nears and almost manages to stand, but she shoves her hand hard into his chest, forcing him back into the couch.

“Hot,” he says, smirking, but that’s all he can get out before she delivers a blow to his jaw, his head snapping to the side.

Her fingers don’t even hurt.

“You arrogant, stupid, son-of-a-bitch,” she hisses, grabbing the collar of his shirt with her other hand and pulling him forward. She raises her fist again, ready to knock some sense into him, when Clint grabs her forearm, stopping her from beating Tony into a whimpering mass of pathetic.

She doesn’t take her eyes off of Tony, who is blinking up at her stupidly, when she speaks. “Clint, let go of my arm,” she says, evenly.

Either Clint has a death wish or his hearing aids aren’t in, because he doesn’t let go.

Since they’re friends, she assumes the later, and yanks her arm down and out of his grasp. She doesn’t raise it again, since he’s still behind her, but she does keep her fist clenched and her grip on Tony’s shirt.

“Natasha, what’s going on?” Steve steps into her line of vision, his hands raised in a pacifying manner. Her scowl deepens, and she shoves Tony back into the couch. He reaches up and rubs his already-darkening jaw as she takes a step back so Clint can see what she’s about to say.

“Peter had the magnet guy.” She states it bluntly, loudly. “Then Tony came in and interfered so he could take the win.” She stands tall, glaring down at Tony. “Isn’t that right, rat?” she spits.

Tony’s jaw drops, and he makes a move to stand, stopping only when she takes an aggressive step towards him. He raises his hands, mimicking Steve, and shakes his head.

“I- well, it’s not that simple-“

“Oh, I think it’s _plenty_ simple.” Natasha’s tone is downright murderous, her eyes flashing. “You fucked with Peter’s job, and now he’s in the hospital, sleeping through yet another day while his back knits itself together and his fucking _spine regrows_.”

“Okay, a little dramatic, his spine was only a little worn away, not even enough for paralysis-“

Natasha gets in another punch before Clint manages to grab her arm again. Steve steps in between Natasha and Tony, now supporting a split cheek and a soon-to-be-black eye. Natasha glares around Steve, ignoring him completely.

“You fucking _coward_! So intimidated by a little boy that you fuck with his mission and send him to the hospital!” She resists the urge to spit on him. “You disgust me.”

Tony twitches. “Easy there, Nat-“

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay, fine. Whatever. He wasn’t the only one that got sent to the hospital, you know.”  
“Oh, yes, _very sorry_ about your broken rib. Even more sorry about your crushed hand.”

“I don’t have a-“

In the end, he still doesn’t have a crushed hand. Steve intervenes, too, before she can do more than dislocate his thumb. Tony is now standing up and on the other side of the couch, clutching his hand to his chest. _Weak_.

“What the everloving _fuck_ , Na- Widow?!”

“I don’t like traitors!” she spits, and kicks Steve’s shin so he’ll let her go. She folds her arms, turning to each of the other Avengers. “And _none of you_ should be putting up with this.”

Thor takes a deep breath and turns to Tony. “Is what she says true, Stark?” he asks. “Did you interfere with the young spider’s duty?”

“I didn’t- I mean, yeah, but not intentionally so that he would get _hurt_ ,” Tony says. “It was just, like. A game…” he finishes weakly, looking desperately around at the others. Steve’s brows furrow, and Clint takes a deep breath.

“A game?”

“Yeah, like- like when we were fighting those mutated maggots, and we were seeing who could get more- and, Clint, you fired an arrow at me so that you could get the one I was going after-“

Natasha shakes her head. “It is nothing like that.”

“It is!”

“Peter almost died,” she snaps. “If I hadn’t whacked Magnet over the head, he would have _died_.”

“Any of us could have died! That’s the risk we take!”

“No,” Steve says. “He’s young, Tony. We don’t endanger him at all. We don’t _engage_ him at all. That was the whole point of not allowing him on the team-“

“He was still out there, fighting. I thought-“

“What? That you would show him up? Very brave, this act of besting someone in his teens.” Natasha’s fists are still clenched.

“I thought we could still be friends! Play around, you know?”

“You kicked him off the team.”

“And I was right to do so!”

“And yet you engage him during battle?” Thor asks.

“If we intervened enough, maybe he’d stop fighting!” Tony says, his voice high. Natasha laughs.

“Rather, if _you_ intervened enough you’d embarrass him back into his civilian life and restate your righteousness in this team.”

Tony is silent. Natasha smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

“No, I-“

“Enough. I don’t want to hear another word from your pathetic, gaping mouth.”

Suddenly, the future is clear to her. What she has to do. What Bruce and Thor and probably Steve will do, too. She hopes Clint will, as well, but… she shakes her head. They’re friends, not the same being. She can make her own choices, and she can live if he chooses not to go with her.

Pieces fall into place, and she knows- she _knows_ \- that she will leave here today victorious.

“I’m out,” she says. “I will not take orders from someone as cowardly as you.”

She spins, ready to storm out, when Clint places a hand on her shoulder.

“Nat,” he murmurs. “Think about what you’re saying.”

She shakes him off. “Think of what you’ll be doing, by staying,” she says.

He frowns, his worry apparent. She can see the thoughts flicking through his head- Tony did a good job of appealing to Clint, earlier. He was a good person, but he was… fairly easily swayed by those he looked up to.

Before Clint can speak again, Thor opens his mouth. “I’m with Widow,” he says. “A king does not toy with those weaker than he.”

Natasha shoots Thor a smile, and then smirks at Tony over her shoulder.

Steve stands there, his eyes darting between Natasha and Tony. After a second, he sighs, and runs a hand through his hair.

“I- I’m actually with Natasha on this.” He shoots Tony an apologetic look. “Sorry, Tony. It’s just,” he shrugs. “We weren’t supposed to do anything with him- we were supposed to keep him safe-“

Tony’s mouth opens and closes, and he stares helplessly at them. “You can’t- you can’t do this!” he says. “You signed a contract! You’re all-“

Natasha scoffs. “As though I have not broken a hundred different contracts under a hundred different corrupt men.”

She turns and walks towards the door, Thor and Steve following behind. She ignores the twinge of disappointment in her gut when Clint stays still, instead focusing on what she’s going to do.

“Oh, Bruce is out, too,” she tosses over her shoulder once they reach the door. He hasn’t said as much, but she knows him.

Tony scrambles around the couch, his voice high. “All his research belongs to me! All of _your_ paychecks are void, your rooms-“

She smirks as the door slams shut behind them, cutting him off.


	6. Chapter 6

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

God, he fucked up. The door is not opening back up. They are not standing there with their heads bowed, asking for forgiveness- or grinning widely, cameras in hand for that stupid prank video channel Tony himself started a while back- or, or… he doesn’t know, with neutral expressions and no memory of what happened.

He gives it another three seconds or so before he allows himself to panic.

He fucked up _so badly_. He is now so deep in his own shit he has no hope whatsoever of getting out. He’s buried beyond his eyeballs, and this is where he is going to die: alone and suffocated in his own shit.

“Tony?”

Well, partially alone.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the tight feeling in his chest.

“Yeah,” he says. When he opens his eyes, Clint is looking at him, his eyes narrowed.

“You’re making a weird noise.”

“No, I’m not,” Tony snaps. Clint just rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

“So, what-“

“Was I so wrong?” Tony interrupts, throwing his hands into the air. “I was just trying to protect the kid- I mean, he’s nineteen! He has a chance to get out of this and study at MIT or Harvard or some other genius college! And then work anywhere! Even here! I’d’ve hired him!”

Clint just keeps looking at him.

“And I didn’t _mean_ for him to get so hurt! I was just- I mean, we were goofing around! I was trying to lighten the mood!”

Clint nods slowly, hesitantly. But it’s the single, non-negative response he needs, so Tony takes this as a super-positive affirmation; akin to being slapped on the back by Stephen Hawking and then chest bumped by Adam Savage and then side-hugged by his father. Or something. Famous names can be interchanged but the father thing stays.

Tony jabs a finger at Clint. “Exactly! I mean, what, should I be punished for every single mistake I make? It was an accident! And the kid- Peter, he wasn’t even paying attention… how can we expect him to be a good fighter if he doesn’t follow the most basic rule of fighting?

“Besides it’s been, like, a week! This whole thing is just spinning out of control. All Peter had to do was wait two years! Two! That’s it, and we would have been _golden_.”

Clint sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Tony-“

Clint’s voice is low, his tone serious. The panic that has taken a backseat to frustration wells back up in Tony’s chest. He doesn’t think what Clint is about to say is going to be good, so:

“Thank you for staying, Clint,” Tony says, abruptly. Clint blinks, and Tony hates that he actually looked a little shocked.

“Uh, you’re welcome,” he says. Tony lets out a breath and nods, letting himself fall back onto the couch. He groans, buries his face in his hands.

“What are we even gonna do? How are we gonna announce this to New York?”

“Tony, look-“ and the tone is still there, but Clint goes on before Tony can interrupt. “You fucked up. Pretty badly. Probably worse than you ever have before.”

“Thank, Clint,” Tony says, not kindly.

“But this is Peter we’re talking about. Mr. No Killing, Even When It’s My Uncle’s Murderer. Mr. Googly-Eyes for His Heroes Three Years Into Knowing Them. If you just apologize- get Peter to forgive you-“

“I can’t,” Tony groans.

Clint shoots him a look. “And why the fuck not?”

“If I apologize, he’ll want back on the team, and, Clint, I do not want him on the team.”

“Huh. He really does intimidate you.”

Tony scowls. “A little. But that is not the point, I swear.”

“Then what is? This bullshit age thing? ‘Cause we both know-“

“You know, people often forget that I fought my way out of a war zone,” Tony interrupts. Clint goes silent, staring at him. “Yeah, I wasn’t there fighting for my country. But I still saw shit- flew past dead bodies, heard people screaming.”

He pauses, staring intently at the wall.

“There were a lot of dead kids over there, Clint. More than- more than you’d think.”

He flicks his eyes back to Clint’s. “I’m not trying to make this into a sob story. You’ve seen worse, I’m sure. But. I _do not_ want to turn around in battle and see him with a pipe sticking out of his neck. Or a bomb detonated on his chest. I _do not_ want to hear him screaming over the com. I _do not want him dead_. He’s nineteen. He looks like a child, he sounds like a child. He deserves to live like a child, not die like a hero.”

Clint doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he says, quietly, “Tony, Nat’s right. He fights without us.”

“But if we can get him to stop-“

“He won’t.”

“Yeah? And you’re so sure about this why?”

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose. “God, you’re stupid,” he says. “He has powers! Great power, great responsibility? Haven’t you quoted that a bunch of times during press releases?”

Tony scoffs. “Yeah. And you know what? I have great power. And I have great responsibility. I try to keep people safe, Clint. It doesn’t always work, obviously. And I fucked up, big time, this whole shebang. But this could be the end. He could leave now.”

“He won’t.”

Tony wants to scream. Why isn’t anybody else seeing this? Why are they so- they’re so caught up in his mistakes that they’re taking Peter’s side.

“We can make him. We can put out warrants again. Pull in bigger guys than the NYPD, get him off the streets.”

“That’s not fair, Tony, and you know it.”

“What’s not fair-” Tony shouts, his hands, for some reason, twisting so that it looks like he’s giving the A-Okay sign- “Is that this kid was screaming bloody murder the other day as _his back was being ripped open_! What’s not fair is that _I caused that_ because I was _fucking around_ with him! Imagine what it would be like with him on the team! God, I- didn’t you fucking hear-“

“No.”

Tony clenches his teeth. “Well, I did. And Nat did, too. And neither of us are gonna forget it, I’m sure. The difference is that _I_ ,” he smacks his hand into his chest, “-am doing something to prevent this from ever happening again! _She_ is okay with putting him in imminent danger, just because I mess up!”

“Then maybe _you’re_ the one that needs to take a step back! Tony, _all of this_ happened because of you!”

Tony’s teeth snap together, and he feels like he can’t breathe. Like Clint punched him in the chest, hard. Anger is welling up in his stomach, fast and violent.

How _dare_ he- Tony was the one that _started_ all this Avengers shit- _he_ was the one who-

Clint takes a deep breath and sits down on the coffee table.

“Look, lay this all out for him. Stop doing your dumbass isolation thing. We get it, you suck. Suck less and unite everyone again and get Peter with us so we can protect him!”

The anger is twisting more quickly inside of Tony, and he has to clench his jaw harder to relieve some of it.

“Besides, we can use the kid. He’s a great fighter and he’s got that happy-go-lucky attitude and god knows he’s saved my life more times than I’ve saved his. Well. Almost. He was great on the team and he will be great on the team. You just have to- apologize, and it’ll all fix itself-“

“No,” Tony hisses through clenched teeth. “That is not going to happen.”

“Tony,” Clint says, his voice low. Almost like a warning, or a reprimand.

Tony stands up quickly, the rage boiling him from the inside out. He has to leave before he looses his cool, says something really stupid. As much as Clint is pissing him off, he needs someone on his side. “I’m done talking about this,” he says. “I’ll be in my lab.”

“You cannot keep running from this shit-“

“You don’t like it? Feel free to make like your girlfriend and ditch.” Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Clint slams his palm into the table.

“You see what I’m saying, Tony?! Anytime someone disagrees with you, you throw them to the sharks- you’re wrong _a lot_ , and this-“

“THIS IS NOT SOMETHING I AM WILLING TO DISCUSS!” Tony shouts. Shit. Lost his cool. That’s okay, though, because… well, because he says so.

“Of-fucking-course you’re not,” Clint growls.

Tony shoots him one last glare, but Clint has stood and is making his way towards the gym, so he misses it.

Maybe for the best.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve turns to Natasha as soon as they enter the elevator.

“So. You got any plans?”

Natasha shakes her head and presses the button for the hospital floor. “I don’t have one, fully. I am thinking, though. Whatever it is, Peter will be-“

Steve is already shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry. I did not mean to mislead you. I meant, do you have any plans for the weekend, or something. I still stand where I originally stood. He _is_ a child. I disagree with Tony’s actions, but.” He offers her a tight-lipped smile. “Not his reasons.”

Natasha crosses her arms as the elevator dings down and studies the changing numbers. “Yeah, I figured.” She flicks her gaze, briefly, to Thor. “Are you-“

“With you and Peter,” Thor says, immediately. “I am always with you, too, Steve, in friendship and in battle. But if Natasha is going where I believe she is, then I wish to fight alongside her and Peter.”

Steve nods. “I understand.”

“What are you gonna do?” Natasha asks. Steve purses his lips and takes a deep breath through his nose.

“Not sure yet,” he says. “Something good, I hope.”

Natasha refrains from rolling her eyes, but just barely.

They’re silent for another few flights, when Steve starts to chuckle.

“Frantically planning my future in an elevator,” he says when Nat looks at him. “Usually I’m much more on top of things. A two-month resignation letter, or a replacement.”

Natasha smirks and Thor asks why two months is the standard, laughing when Steve tells him it’s eight weeks longer than the standard.

The elevator reaches the floor and the doors slide open. Steve clears his throat and looks to Natasha. “Even if I am not on whatever team you may form, I will always fight alongside you.”

Natasha smiles faintly at him. “Thank you, Steve.”

“Are you not coming with us to see Peter?” Thor asks, already off the elevator.

Steve smiles, sadly. “I’ll see him later, once he’s healed. I don’t think now-“ he sighs, grabs his neck. “Now’s probably not the best time for someone who argued against him to be seeing him.”

A brief wave of relief washes through Nat. She’s glad Steve came to the same conclusion that she did- she’d hate to have to hurt his feelings.

Thor’s lips thin out, but Natasha puts a hand on his arm.

“We’ll see you later, Steve. Be careful.”

He salutes her, and, again, she barely manages not to roll her eyes. “You too, Black Widow, Thor.”

The elevator doors slide shut, and they stand there for a moment. An entire reckless future, determined in the space of five minutes.

Good thing she’s made more important decisions in less time, or she'd really be freaking out.

They turn and she begins leading them towards Peter’s room.

“What are you thinking, my dear friend?” Thor asks, and she shrugs.

“I’m thinking we should talk to Peter. He should be a part of anything we decide.”

Thor smiles at her. “Excellent. Let us go.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s two days before they see him actually lucid.

 

There are tears streaming down his face, but he still smiles at them as they walk in.

“Hey guys,” he chokes out, and offers a quick wave of his hand. “What’s up?”

“Peter,” Bruce mutters. “What did I tell you about moving?”

Peter buries his face in the pillow instead of responding. Thor masks a gag with a cough next to Natasha, and she swallows hard before steeling herself and looking more closely at the injury. This is the first time she’s seen it in a while, and it is just as awful as she remembers. Peter is on his stomach, his hips and shoulders strapped to the bed, the blankets pulled back and gauze cut away to reveal a pulpy mess of red and white where his upper back should be. She can see his spine, still a little worn away, shifting slightly each time Peter moves.

She has no idea how he is still moving.

He is healing though- that’s surprisingly clear to her. Where his shoulder blades had been broken away has already patched over, the skin a vibrant pink where it was beginning to grow back. Like scar tissue intensified. Same with his lower back.

Bruce is poking and prodding around, mask over his mouth, shiny utensils in his hands.

“Almost done, Pete, and then we can get you back onto the meds at a stronger dose….“

Peter says something, muffled from the pillow.

“Last one,” Bruce says, and his eye twitches when Peter groans loudly into the pillow. He doesn’t look up at them when he says that maybe they should come back later.

“What are you doing to him?” Thor asks instead of leaving, and Bruce grunts something before setting his tools down and immediately reaching over and pressing the button for morphine. He stands, pulling down his mask, and waves them a step back.

“Checking nerve endings and his healing,” Bruce says.

“You cannot use medicine to do that?” Thor asks.

Bruce frowns deeply. “You think I want him in pain? I need a coherent response when I ask if something hurts or have a question about his healing ability.”

Thor nods and looks down at Peter, who is already starting to loosen- his arms hanging limply over the sides instead of taunt and gripping the pillow, his head lolling a little to the side. More like the Peter they've seen the past few days. Relaxed and giddy and confusing.

Bruce reaches over into the cart next to him and begins unrolling long strips of gauze.

"He's probably got a day or so left of healing," he says. "But he looks really, really good, all things considered."

"I look really, really good all the time," Peter says. Thor laughs and Bruce rolls his eyes.

"The meds are much weaker than they were. He's still gonna be a little loopy, but not nearly to the degree that he has been."

Thor nudges Peter's arm with his hand. "A shame," he says with a grin. "You are much easier to tune out when you are shouting nonsense."

"You're just jealous that."

When he doesn't continue, Bruce goes on.

"I'm not sure what the next step is gonna be, though," he goes on. "We're actually really lucky Stark hasn't kicked us out of the hospital. But if he's going to stay this vindictive, then I don't know what we're going to do."

Natasha nods, her mind drifting, briefly, to the news conference wherein Stark announced the end of the Avengers.

_"I cannot work with people who are willing to endanger children," he had said, camera flashes lighting up his face. "And that's what the majority of my old team was doing. And so, myself and Clint Barton- the only other original member of the Avengers who was not okay with the actions taken by the others- are going to build a new team, from the ground up. A stronger, smarter, and more ethically sound-"_

She jerks back to the present when Thor claps a hand on her shoulder. "We can always turn the tide against Stark," he says, "and inform everyone under this sky of his actions against the child he claims to protect."

Bruce shakes his head. "Tony wouldn't have gone out and said those things unless he was certain that no one could trace Peter's injury back to him. There's probably no video footage of him messing up Peter's win. Or, if there was, he's erased it. It'll be our word against his."

"And the word of three Avengers will not win out against one?"

Bruce sends Thor a wry smile. "Not when it's two foreign Avengers and the Hulk," he says.

"What about the young spider? The people of New York seem to love him, he could-"

"Thor, the billionaire will always win. People like Peter more, but... Tony has more power than they have love."

Peter nods violently into the pillow before Bruce puts a hand firmly on his neck to keep him still. "That was so deep, Bruce," Peters says, his voice muffled in the pillow. "Natasha, can you- um. Hand me my phone? I want to write that down."

Natasha grabs his phone off the table and hands it to him.

"God, Bruce, you're so smart. Even outside of science," Peter mumbles. "I wish I..." he trails off, and then reaches out and jabs Natasha in the thigh with his phone, still on and open to the note he was making. "Please put this back, please," he says.

She glances at the screen as she slides it onto the table. It reads

 

        AHBSh sk&@@@@@@@@@@@

 

She types in the translation underneath before tossing it onto the side table.

Bruce is halfway done with the bandages, his gloved hands bloody and the spray bottle he's using full of some sort of peroxide nearly empty.

"Whatever we do, we have to do it fast," he says. "There's already been too much time between now and when Tony first had his press release. Has SHIELD contacted either of you?"

They both shake their heads. Odd, considering that they have contracts, but... if Tony went public without SHIELD's say-so, then maybe they've been forced to ignore the public child-killers of their forces and dissolve the contracts. It would make sense- SHIELD's been changing rapidly from what they once were to a minefield of public mistakes and low appeal from citizens.

Natasha is also a top-notch assassin, and she's now teamed up with a god and an indestructible doctor. She's not too worried.

"Good. Next time Peter wakes up-"

"I'm awake now!"

"-and off of the drugs, we should come up with a plan."

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. Wait. Hold on. A plan for what?” Peter asks. “Because I’m really, really good at planning.”

“A plan to get back at Tony,” Natasha says.

“Woah. You’re all gonna go behind his back?”

“Indeed,” says Thor. “For you, Peter.”

“Holy shit. But what’s that mean for the Avengers?” Peter asks, and begins to turn his head but stops once Bruce clears his throat.

“We quit, Peter. We told you this yesterday.”

Peter is silent for a few second. And then, under his breath: “Holy fuck.”

“Yeah,” Bruce says to himself, and pulls back from Peter’s bandages for a moment to examine his handiwork. “Holy fuck indeed.”

Peter twists his head and grins up at them. "Thanks for sticking by me, guys," he says, and then bursts out laughing. Thor laughs along, though he clearly has no idea what's so funny. Bruce makes a noise in the back of his throat and pushes Peter's head back down onto the pillow.

"One more moment, Peter. Then we can laugh."

“Okay.”

Natasha decides to run to the vending machine at the end of the hall and grab them all some food. As she leaves, Thor makes his way over to the seats and lowers himself into one, the chair creaking dangerously under his weight but holding, watching intently at the bandages covering the last of Peter's wound and waiting for Bruce to finish with the small vial of surgical glue so they can chat, as they’ve done the last few days.

Later, they’ll get serious and plan. But for now, Thor likes talking to someone so giddy.


End file.
